Crowley's No Good Day
by Patricia de Lioncourt
Summary: Crowley's had a rotten time of it lately, and a certain Dark Lord's appearance in an already strange place doesn't make it any better.
**Title:** Crowley's No Good Day **
Author: patriciatepes  
Prompt: **Crowley goes into a bar and meets… Darth Vader! **  
Fandoms:** Supernatural/Star Wars (Original Trilogy) **  
Word count:** ~1500 **  
Rating/Contents:** PG-13; SPOILERS for Supernatural season 11.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural, Star Wars, or any related characters. Making no money here, as they all still belong to their prospective owners.  
 **Summary:** Crowley's had a rotten time of it lately, and a certain Dark Lord's appearance in an already strange place doesn't make it any better. Written for intoabar.

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 **Crowley's No Good Day**

Where the bloody hell was he now?

Crowley's eyesight had gone completely black when he had run from Lucifer—or Cassifer, as he was sure _somebody_ was calling him now. And no, not demon eyes black. No, can't see a friggin' thing black. In order of the senses, sight ended up being the last one to recover from his impromptu skedaddle. First, he could feel himself standing, unsteadily, on his own two feet, his suit's matching coat feeling rumbled on his meatsuit. He could hear music—not really like any he had ever heard in his _mumble mumble_ years of existence. For that matter, the scents he perceived were foreign to him as well. Foods he could not put a name to were wafting all about him. And even the air tasted funny. It wasn't salty, like the sea, but it didn't have a country freshness to it either. It felt just strange in his mouth. The fact that oxygen was present in enough quantity for a human to breathe was all he was sure of in that regard. And finally, when his damned eyes cleared, he seemed to get a quick answer to all this strangeness around him.

He was in a pub. But not any that existed on Earth. Creatures that Crowley knew for a fact were living beings akin to humanity and not monsterdom surrounded him, as well as some humans. The music that almost drowned out the din of various conversations was coming from an all alien band in the darkest corner of the room. An odd placement, as usually the live entertainment in most establishments was the draw. But, on a second glance about the "space pub" he noticed that darkened corners seemed to be a theme. The only well-lit spot in the place was the bar itself, and it was to it that Crowley made his destination.

He heaved his meatsuit up on one of the brightly colored stools—highlighted even further by the garishly neon-lit bar—and signaled for the barkeep—some tentacle-covered bastard—to pour him whatever was handy. He had his drink in moments, which was something to be said of the service, and downed it in one gulp. It was vile, no thirty year scotch to be sure, but it'd do in a pinch, so he ordered another. And a pinch the, ahem, deposed King of Hell was in, indeed. Those Hands of God items should really come with a warning label. Do not teleport within twenty-four hours of use, or something like that. He was clearly on another planet that was Hell knows how far from Earth, running from the Devil himself, and drinking what he was almost positive had to be rubbing alcohol. What a fine mess it was.

But he was Crowley, for God's sake. He'd drink a couple more of these ghastly shots, sit a moment to form some sort of plan of action for taking back his hard-earned throne, and then flit away back to Earth. Well, perhaps not flit. Things could not get worse for him, just sitting here in a pub on a planet he was not even known on, after all.

And like all ill stated clichés, it was at that precise moment that a loud collection of screams erupted from what sounded like the entrance of the pub. People were already standing and running by the time Crowley turned his head to glance. The sounds of… laser fire—really?—followed the second wave of screams, and before another moment passed, a group of soldiers dressed entirely in white armor had filled the pub, guns pointed at the remaining patrons who had failed to escape out the back.

"Don't move," yelled the soldier in the front, his voice escaping the oddly shaped helm through some means of microphone or something, due to the slight recorded feel to it.

Crowley sat right where he was, putting his back to the "stormtroopers," he had heard someone call them. He was staring at the bottom of his shot glass, cursing the emptiness of it, when another sound filled the room.

It sounded like heavy breathing. It was even, so much so that one could have set a watch by it. Crowley's curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced back over his shoulder once more at the hulking figure that had joined the fray. He was dressed all in black, with a similarly shaped mask to the stormtroopers' covering his entire face. A panel of some sort seemed wired into his chest, a belt ran about his waist, and a long menacing cape flowed behind him. Not one inch of skin was visible, and if Crowley was human, he was sure the figure—Lord Vader, he heard another patron whisper—would be quite frightening. But Crowley had stood up to Lucifer, and fairly recently, so this mouth-breather was nothing but an annoyance heaped upon an already crappy day. He turned back to his empty shot glass, no more concerned for Vader's presence than he would be that of a fly's.

"We are looking for informants to the Rebel Alliance," Vader's voice, deep and just as frightening as his figure, called out. "If you have such information, _now_ is the time to step forward. Perhaps I will show you mercy."

The way he stated those last words made it abundantly clear that the opposite would be most certainly true. Crowley rolled his eyes. They had just made it a full rotation when the barrel of a gun jabbed into his left shoulder.

"You," demanded the stormtrooper, "turn and face Lord Vader."

Crowley sighed. He had really hoped it wouldn't come to this. What did a demon have to do for a quiet evening alone? Crowley turned on his stool, shook his head, and snapped his fingers. Then, the insolent stormtrooper's neck made a rotation of its own, ending in an audible snap. The body had barely finished hitting he floor when Vader's gaze flew to Crowley. He pulled what looked like the hilt of a blade from his belt. With the push of a button, a line of red light extended out from the hilt, stopping once it was the proper length of a blade.

"How did you accomplish that?" Vader asked. "I don't sense the Force in you. You are not a Jedi."

Ah, yes. Crowley knew where he was now. _That_ galaxy, the one in which the bacterium was so different that some of the living beings found themselves hosts to creatures called midichlorians that allowed them to manipulate the powers around them, which had the given name of The Force. What a fun place he had chosen. He fought another eye roll. Instead, he lazily lifted a hand, shaking his head.

"Look, you're right. I'm not a bloody Jedi. Want to know who I am? I'm a demon who's had a real Hell of a day. All I want to do is return to my home planet and kill the son of a bitch that kept me chained like a dog. I don't know jack about your Rebel Alliance, but best of luck stopping the bastards. Rebels are all whiners in my experience anyway."

Hands shoved into his coat's pocket, Crowley began to make his way toward the door of the pub. He always liked to make an exit, and he figured walking by this hulking figure of death like he was nothing would be a grand one. However, before he could fully pass by Vader, the red blade of his light sword was in front of him.

"How do I know you're speaking the truth? Why shouldn't I kill you for your insolence?"

Crowley grinned. "I like the way you think. Reminds me of a young me. Only I didn't so much have the breathing issues. Look, you can do things with that Force of yours, can't you? Like look into minds? Open book, mate. One time only."

Vader seemed to size the demon up. After a few tense moments, he finally reached out a free hand. Crowley could feel a pressure build up inside his mind, but he let it in, not fighting, as promised. After a few moments, the pressure vanished, and Vader deactivated his weapon.

"Very well. Leave," he said.

Crowley nodded once, beginning to exit once more when he heard one of the stormtroopers make a protest. This was silenced by the sounds of choking. Crowley grinned. He was almost out of the pub when movement in one of the dark corners caught his eye. A bearded man, small and kind of shaky looking caught the demon's eye. The man grinned, just a little, and said, "Hey, Crowley."

"Do I know you?" the demon asked.

"You might have read some of my works, back on Earth."

It clicked then. All of it, starting with the memory of the picture that had accompanied the About the Author section on the back of each book in a very particular series. Crowley grinned, and the grin on the other man's face widened.

"Make sure to put Lucifer back where he belongs," the man said.

Crowley huffed out a laugh. "On the top of my to-do list."

Once outside the pub, Crowley allowed more chuckles to escape.

"Strange day," he said before snapping his fingers and leaving this wretched planet behind forever.

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End Notes: Okay, so guy at the end, that was for you Slinky-And-The-BloodyWands. What did you all think? Also, as this was written from Crowley's POV, I avoided all usage of the proper names of items in the Star Wars 'verse that I could not find an excuse for Crowley finding out about. Please review, as they feed a hungry author's muse!


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